Me blind, shall SEE!

I got my first pair of glasses when I was in the fifth grade. I don't remember the board being fuzzy or requesting a visit to the eye doctor, just that I got my glasses a few days before our school's outdoor ed week at Camp Orkila. By the time I got home from camp, my brand new lenses were all scratched up. Its only looking back that I realize how huge those glasses were. Thanks a lot, mom.

I got contacts in the fifth grade too, but didn't wear them much until 7th grade, when my best friend who I was trying with all my little 12 year old heart to keep up with through the first and most awkward stages of puberty ditched her glasses for a more mature (that's ma-toor, not matchur) look. I realized that swimming in contacts was cake as soon as we went on family vacation to Mexico with a family friend-boy that I was crushing on. He was two years older and I wouldn't be caught dead on the beach in those monster goggles. Kathryn and Cam weren''t in glasses and neither again would I be.

Until last week, for four days, as directed by my eye doctor (now, what's the difference between an optometrist and ophthamologist?). After 16 years of hating my bad eyes, I finally cracked and ordered myself some laser eye surgery. This week reminded me of how much I for real hate wearing glasses, all the temple squeezing and nose marking going on, with blurry periphery and glasses falling off my face all the time, made all the more pathetic since my most up-to-date prescriptioned pair (the much more fashionable red, square frame, left) is missing its left ear stem and the one with that's not falling to pieces has a five years old prescription and a shape I'm not sure what I was thinking when I ordered (it's kind of a cross between an oval and a trapezoid if you can picture it).

I was always a contacts girl, ever since I was peer pressured into them at least. I was hard core with gas permeable (hard) lenses until late high school when I realized that the only reason to wear hard lenses is to keep your vision from getting worse (by holding the cornea in place), and my vision was worsening regardless. Hard lenses also last for just about ever, which would have saved me (or my parents rather) some money if I didn't keep losing mine and having to replace them at $100 bucks a pop. So I've been a softy since then, which has gone mostly problem free, except for the occasional torn lens, which is really only a problem when it happens while driving, or riding along in a tuk tuk at 60mph in Cambodia, as has been the case on a few occasions.

But now all that's over. Near-sighted no more. Thanks to Clearly Lasik, a boo ya BizX discount through my dad, and whichever crazy scientist invented PRK technology. I'm officially just plain old glorious sighted. All it took was six minutes (three minutes an eye) and a probably way over-paid doctor who works four days a month (I was the 24th out of 25 surgeries on my day, and the second highest prescription! -7.5 in both eyes. Beat that!), but seriously the nicest guy and most positive staff that could be possible.

I spent almost 2 days straight sleeping, mostly lounging (or... dropping it like it's hot) in sweet outfits like this one. Always with my razor shades, way to big for my face but blocking out the light to meet my needs. But after 2.5 days of recovery, I'm not really light sensitive or all that dry eyed anymore. I'm still only up to 20/25 but that's street legal and it's supposed to increasingly improve over time.

A lifetime of paying for glasses I don't wear, contacts that need to be maintained every day and thrown out every two weeks (orrr three... :)), not being able to see the clock when I wake up or my shampoo when I shower. That mulchy feeling in your eyes if happen to sleep in your contacts. Being able to see the contact rim in photos. A new weirdo optometrist every year. Mini-stress sessions while trying to decipher the letter board at the smallest row or deciding if option or two is clearer when they look almost exactly the same or maybe your eyes are just watering or your eyelashes are bumping the screen and messing up the diagnosis. A hundred thousand contact cases given to you for free, but never when you need them.

So. Over.

Welcome to the family

Soundtrack: These Boots are Made For Walking by Nancy Sinatra (or a jammin cover by Ella Fitzgerald or smoking (slash a little creepy) by The Legendary Tiger Man)

To my new white cowboy boots with dazzling embroidery and Italian leather knee high boots with a perfect gold buckle:
Welcome to the family. You'll fit right in.

I'm not really a shopper, but I have three weaknesses: dresses, coats, and boots. (And maybe plain v-neck tees that go with just about everything, but I'm not really ready to admit that yet. Nor have I amassed a collection big enough to give me away.) Everything else in my closet wears until it's threadbare. I've been putting off buying new jeans and bras for months. Don't even get me started on tennis shoes. Not even jewelry does it for me (unless I steal it from my much more stylish than me mother of course).

For dresses I love to window shop (mostly online), impulse buying on a very rare occasion. For coats, I research long and well for a good, warm investment, few and far between. Boots, well boots just come to me.

Here's a candid family photo (left to right, back to front), including new additions:Three sturdy weather boots:

• Warm and fuzzy Uggs [fake-o from China last Christmas]


• Snug and happy Sperry rain boots [SUPER EXTRA clearance at Nordstrom. $25]


• All-purpose grey boots that match everything and can be worn in or out of pants or with dresses, in the snow or rain or on a sunny day [impulse bought at Marshall's. $40.]

Four floppy (see above) boots:

• Brown zip-up heels [my first pair of boots purchased from the only vintage shop in Provo, Coal Umbrella. $30.]


• Sleek black to dress up or dress down, depending on the occasion [Christmas, from the lady Knudsons]


• Italian leather knee high boots with a perfect gold buckle [Georgetown' 'Trailer park' fair. $14.]


• Short, ruffled, suede boots, dainty and tan [For Christmas, from my sister-in-law]

Two totally smokin' cowgirl boots:

• Red [I asked my mom for hers years ago, then proceeded to unsuccessfully try to steal them from her until she finally bought me these babies for Christmas last year]


• White [Georgetown' 'Trailer park' fair. $24.]

I love me some already broken-in, blister free shoes, and consider it nothing less than a miracle that every pair of boots that I have fallen in love with at first sight at a consignment store (or street fair, as it seems to be) just happen to be itty bitty just like my size 6 feet. Miraculous, I tell you, because most other venues seem to perpetuating size discrimination against us petites.

I can't seem to get on board with those bondage looking sandal boots that were crazy big last year and I hope they are going away. I have a secret wish for sassy thigh highs but will never in a million years buy them.

It's a happy family of footwear that makes each drizzly, snowy, or sunny day a joy. Oh, glorious boots, so functional and stylish, making a statement while keeping my feet toasty. The only sad thing about summer coming is fewer days to wear my boots.

Oh me of little faith

Soundtrack: Doubting Thomas by Nickel Creek


Last August, my Bishop recommended me to be a temple worker. Essentially this means a weekly six hour stint at the temple, helping out as needed. I love the idea of volunteering my spare time in the most peaceful place on earth every week. But at the time, there were several reasons why I didn't feel like it was for me. And that was that.

About a month ago, I popped into the temple on a whim and got one of those overtake your heart and brain reminders that that recommendation is still on the table. I thought a lot about it that morning and ended up talking to a member of the temple presidency about it before I left. When I was considering being a missionary, I had had a similar ambiguous "think about it" impression and when I finally talked to my bishop about it, there was no question what I should do. God wanted me to be a missionary. That confirmation came instantly and I really only twice questioned the decision ever again. Once when I realized that the guy who I was dating at the time [and wanted to marry] was most definitely going to get married while I was gone, and again when I first got to Thailand and realized that Thai is hard, 100 degrees is hot, and being a missionary is really hard. Both times, I looked back at that initial conversation with my bishop and remembered the certainty I felt. Of course I want to fill out my papers. God wants me to be a missionary and there is no reason I wouldn't follow that call.

I was hoping that I would get a similar strong feeling one way or the other of DO THIS, or DON'T in my conversation with the temple counselor and his wife. They talked about how much the temple needs and appreciates young people volunteering their time and I could let them know when works best for me. Didn't sound or feel like a call from God to me.

Well, at least not that I paid attention to. I called my dad on my way home and talked it out with him. Talked to a couple friends who are currently temple workers, picked the brains of plenty other close friends since then, talked to my current bishop again. It's several weeks later now and with every conversation I have about whether or not I should be a temple worker, the impression is the same: the temple doesn't necessarily need you right now, but you need the temple.

I'm groaning now (out loud) as I write this because I'm really having a hard time coming to grips with the fact that I know that being a temple worker will the best thing for me right now. For the same reasons being a missionary was the best thing I could ever do. For the same reasons that proper sacrifice brings us happiness. Because God knows us, and what we need. I know. I know!

So why am I having such a hard time with just doing it?

Among other things, I have serious issues committing my time, especially such a large and regular chunk as that. Pathetic, I know, but six hours a week somehow feels like a lot. I aimed to pop in to the temple today, and ended up accidentally falling asleep in my bed instead. Oops!

Thomas was an Apostle who wanted to feel Christ's wounds after He was resurrected before being convinced that it was in fact Jesus Christ in front of him. He was dubbed 'Doubting Thomas' for his lack of faith and follow-through. How's that for a legacy?

There is a positive spin (thank you Christianity for always looking for that). After seeing proof, Jesus blessed him for his testimony, and added "Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed." According to Wikipedia, he was also called Thomas the Believer.

Sometimes it's hard to believe. Sometimes it's hard to remember the miracles I've experienced and confirmations I've received. It's hard to want to make the sacrifices that produce faith.

I don't want to be a Doubting Thomas. I echo Nickel Creek in the lament, "Please give me time to decipher the signs. Please forgive me for time that I've wasted... I'm a Doubting Thomas. I'll take your promise, though I know nothing safe. Oh me of little faith."

I will be a temple worker, I just need a minute.

I take it back. Life sucks.

Snotty sneezing, throaty wheezing, I'm coughing up a storm,
I'm stuck in bed with a whirling head, as is, with colds, the norm.
But on top of the pile of tissues and slime, my cold is just the first
most noticeable ailment, of a pitiful list, but certainly not the worst.
My back is red, and legs are too, since yesterday was warm and blue
so my skin is hot, and stinging a lot more strong and quick than I ever thought
a day at the lake and weeding my lot would have or should have ever brought.
Add in cramps from my monthly curse, which has symptoms that are much too diverse
and frankly, for me, a bit too perverse to discuss on a blog in rambling verse.
Sick and burned and ovulating, you can see why the day is blah and frustrating.
I'm ready to sleep, to forget all my pain. My brain can't sustain or maintain such a drain.
But first I'll just publish my rhyming complain

t.

Lemonade!

This photo was taken time-adjusted (i.e. I was sleeping several minutes before I took it, not while I took it. Great effect though, right?

Summertime is here. Not blue sky, fake you out and it's still cold summertime. Summertime, hot enough I want to rip of my skinny jeans and scream for lemonade summertime. And it couldn't have come at a better time. It has been 8 years since I've had a winter in Seattle and while I still feel heaven blessed to have only really had like 5 days of even kind of snow since last November, it really is soggy here. For a so many months in a row. I've gotten more colds than I ever remember getting even though, quite frankly, my hygiene has improved since I was here last.

I'm just getting over a cold I either caught from my coworker, roommate, officemate or one of my donors (my favorite new food bank donor, btw, he's da bomb!). Or easily some other stranger who sneezed in my direction some time in the last week. But now I'm laying in my perfectly manicured back yard (thanks to Anya and her parents who power-washed away the wilderness of moss that covered the patio and my neighbor Ray, who mows for us every week, because, you know, that's what neighbors do. Neighbors apparently also fix your toilet, get you in locked doors, lend tools, and always wear overalls. A+ Ray for doing all of the above while maintaining a perfect Santa-like beard and twinkle in his eyes and not being creepy at all. A tough feat for anyone). Just woke up from the most glorious afternoon nap (this is the payoff for getting to work at 7 am). Loving my yard and my dried out nose.

Now, back to my book: The Legend of Colton Bryant. A dusty cowboy from Wyoming needs my attention.

I'm sweaty!

Sade please

This song by Sade [Shaa day is not phonetic but it is correct] has been my 'take a deep breath remember to slow down, everything is going to be just fine' song of the week (not that I have one every week. Just most weeks).

On repeat.

I woke up from a dream 3 times in the last couple weeks with the end chorus in my head and would forget the lyrics as I came out of my morning fog so I couldn't identify the song. Pandora came to the rescue by playing it on my Tracy Chapman station (yes I have a Tracy Chapman station, don't you?).

It's just so flowing and smooth. You can hear in her voice burnt orange sunset and glittering berries (0:05) that the video portrays. Fern Gully (1:15) and what looks like a Salvador Dali painting (2:12). And btw, Sade looks like a Nigerian Maya Rudolph.